


New Blood

by Little_Lat



Series: Blood Ties [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bodyguard, F/M, Pregnancy, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23811655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lat/pseuds/Little_Lat
Summary: Flea's first undercover assignment as a bodyguard.Constance's last public event before her due date.What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Aramis | René d'Herblay, d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux
Series: Blood Ties [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/306411
Comments: 46
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know what lockdown is good for? Very little! However I've had more time to write than I've had in years. Which is... Something?
> 
> Stay safe everyone <3 Hope you enjoy this instalment! 
> 
> Lat ^^

_“So how are you feeling?”_

“Fat.”

_“You aren’t fat, you’re pregnant. You’re carrying round a pineapple in your stomach –“_

“I’m 34 weeks now, she’s a cantaloupe.”

_“He’s a honeydew melon.”_

Constance rolled her eyes. Her eyes flicked from the cream leather upholstery to the car window. Paris zoomed past the glass, all grey streets and dark clouds. March had seen the last of winter snow disappear, replaced with the never ending wind and rain of Paris in spring.

“You seem very sure it’s a boy.”

_“Course. d’Artagnan’s have boys. Always have.”_

“Technically we’re De Lupiacs now…”

_“It’s a boy. Mark my words. Boy.”_

“Destination in T-8 minutes, Ladies. Weapons check please.” Aramis glanced away from the road ahead, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

“I just did!” Flea said from her spot in the front seat. She checked the bullet magazine for the all the same and slid her Glock into her purse. “You seem tense considering we’re just babysitters with guns.”

“And that’s why you’re still an apprentice. It’s always a mission, the stakes are always high. If you don’t learn that –“

But Constance had stopped listening. From the neighbouring seat Anne offered a conspiratorial look, before rolling her eyes like a teenager. Constance barely concealed her giggle before turning her attention back to her phone.

“Sorry, Flea and Aramis are –“

_“Bickering, I heard,”_ There was a chuckle to d’Artagnan’s tinny voice, _“The Garrison is quiet without them, it’s fantastic.”_

“T-6 minutes. Constance, hang up. I need your ears free.”

“I’ve got to go, Aramis’ orders. Love you.”

_“Love you too. Tell bump I love him.”_

“I’ll tell her. Bye.” Constance cut the call before the gender fight could reignite. Her fingers played with the fabric stretched across her compact bump. She was small for 34 weeks, but not alarmingly so. At the last appointment she’d been measured and declared to the lower end of normal – which suited Constance just fine. Bigger bumps meant bigger babies and _that_ part of pregnancy was still something she was ignoring.

“Are you two still arguing about the gender?” Anne opened her compact with a click checked her make up. Still perfect. “I don’t know why you don’t just find out like any normal couple.”

“It’s become a running joke if I’m honest…” Constance took the mirror from Anne when offered. Big eyes blinked back at her, dark circles covered up by Anne’s magician of a make-up artist. She blinked, trying to rid beginning of a headache which poked at her from behind her eye. What she wouldn’t give to get a full night’s sleep. She wouldn’t give up the baby itself, but she’d maybe offer up Aramis as a trade?

“Porthos started a betting pool, I think most of the Musketeers are in on the action.”

“Oh really?” Anne looked forward to the two Musketeers in the front of the Bentley. “Have you two?”

“I’ve got 10 Euros on boy.” Flea twisted in her seat, offering Constance a devilish smirk which was completely at odds with her appearance. The transformation was quite remarkable. Her hair, normally loose around her shoulders or in a messy top knot, had been pulled back into an elegant, sleek shinyong. The same magician had visited her face and had even managed to cover a yellowy bruise which Clemount had left during a sparring match. Flea’s dress was a pale blue silk and flowed effortless to just below the knee. It completed her transformation into a young socialite, a million miles from the girl who’d walked into the hotel suite that morning.

“50 on a boy. T-2.” Aramis weighed in, eyes never leaving the road.

“You’re both traitors.” There wasn’t any malleus in Constance’s voice thought. Victory would be all the sweeter when she and bump proved everyone wrong. “Flea can get your bet to Porthos if you’re interested, Anne.”

“I could be persuaded. Remind me after the fundraiser.”

“Right ladies…”

Constance felt the car slow as they drew up to the grand sandstone hotel. Photographers were penned in off to the side and three valets jumped with umbrellas jumped to cover the ladies from the drizzley rain.

“…Here we are. Stay in the car until I knock twice.”

Aramis ducked out of the car under his own umbrella and after a moment of silence, Aramis gave 2 firm raps. The doors were opened by the valets and the ladies stepped out. Nervously, Constance smoothed the dark fabric of her dress over her bump, trying not to think about the price of the garment. Who could have imagined she’d ever wear a dress which cost a month’s rent? Voices exploded from the photographers, ignoring the younger women in favour for the big price.

“Madame Royline!”

“Madame!”

“This way!”

“Over here!”

Aramis moved behind the trio as Flea placed herself ever so slightly in front. The group paused for a few blinding photographs, Flea subtlety hiding her face she pretended to fix her hair. Anne linked arms with Constance and smiled back. It seemed so natural to her.

Constance knew she could never get used to this.

* * *

“How are they doing?”

“They?” d’Artagnan dropped his phone to his desk and shot an amused look at his teammate. “Or Flea?”

Porthos was focusing a _little_ too hard on his computer screen to be truly relaxed. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but enjoy it a little. Porthos’ ‘friendship’ with their newest recruit was adorable and completely unbelievable. The whole of Unit 2 could see what was between the pair, all except for the man himself. Perhaps Porthos thought there was too much history there, which was understandable. To meet each other while undercover seemed an impossible way to start any kind of relationship, plutonic or otherwise, and yet…

“This is her first time undercover as a bodyguard. It’s a new experience.”

“Oh? And I suppose you were just as worried about me, my first time.”

d’Artagnan dodged an elastic band which pinged his way. He let out a snort.

“Touchy!”

“d’Artagnan, don’t be a brat.” Athos chimed in from his spot at his desk. “How are they?”

“They’re fine. Madame laid on the whole works at the hotel. Hair, make-up, stylists. From what Constance said they had a great morning. Apparently, Flea looks the part, quite the little socialite.”

“She hadn’t gotten distracted, has she?” Finally Athos looked up from his computer, eyes sharp as ever. “She’s there to work. Flea has to blend in, but I hope she’s focused.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, “I wouldn’t worry. I heard Aramis demand two weapons checks while I was on the phone. He has her plenty focused.”

“Aramis the trainer… God help us all.”

“Behave yourself….” Athos, likely sensing a change of subject was important to save his sanity, nodded to the sonogram picture taped to d’Artagnan’s monitor. “How’s Constance?”

d’Artagnan stretched his arms high above his head, enjoying the cracks down his spine. “Baby’s still throwing cartwheels at night. To be honest I’m kind of glad this is Constance’s last public event. She’d never admit that it’s getting too much for her, but it won’t kill her to take it easy before the baby gets here.”

“Then you’ll never get a good night’s sleep again.” There was a certain crow to Porthos’ voice which tempted d’Artagnan to fling the elastic band back his way. “Once that baby’s here you’re going to dream of the nights we spent on stake outs with Aramis’ sleep talking and my snoring.”

“Children.” There was a warning edge to Athos’ voice. “Take your argument to the gym or do your paperwork.”

Porthos held up his hands in surrender before turning back to his screen. D’Artagnan shook his head but did do the same.

The girls would be fine. What could go wrong at a high tea fundraiser?

* * *

The foyer was packed. The crowd was smaller than Constance had imagined. About 30 people, two thirds woman with immaculately quaffed hair flawless complexions, floated about. They flitted between small groups and greeted each other with smiles and air kisses. Waiters in dark trousers and white shirts wove in between the guests, platters of champagne balanced effortlessly on an outstretched hand. Flowers, a range of whites and blush pinks, adorned every available surface and snaked their way down the grand marble staircase at the other end of the room.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a fundraiser?” Flea murmured in Constance’s ear. The pair watched Anne, a woman was every inch at home in this high society affair, glide off towards a group of women. Her dress, a knee length cream lace, hugged her body perfectly as she leant forward and kissed one of the guests.

Constance flicked her gaze across to Flea, “It’s for One Voice. They run the three largest woman’s shelter in Paris. Madame has been a major financer since it. I think they want to open another site in the south of the city.”

“But how much did this whole cost? Why just forget the fundraiser and use the money for the shelter?”

The conversation paused for a moment as a waiter drifted close to the woman and offered his drinks tray.

“Ladies?”

They both forwent the champagne for sparkling lemonade and nodded their thanks. Once the waiter had moved on their conversation resumed.

“Say this fundraiser cost… Four thousand Euros?” Constance took a sip of the lemonade and grimaced. Too sweet, should had just asked for water. “Each of the woman in this room will donate at leave five, a few perhaps ten. The charity will make their money back with the first pledge.”

Flea’s eyebrows rose for a moment before she remembered herself and smooth her expression into neutral pleasantness. “That’s insane…”

“You get used to it. Money means something different here. These people haven’t had to worry about it a day in their lives.”

Constance took another sip. No. The sugar was definitely making her headache worse. She could feel the pain clustering behind her eye. She sat the glass down next to a vase of roses and looked back to Flea.

“Shall we?”

The pair watched and wandered the foyer as Flea completed her security checks, all sent to Aramis through an earpiece secreted behind a carefully placed curl. There was nothing out of the ordinary, not that they’d expected there to be. D’Artagnan had said as much that morning. A domestic charity fundraiser with less than 50 guests was a perfect place for Flea to practice her bodyguard skills, all with Aramis there to ensure Madame was safe. If she was honest Constance had a selfish hope for the day as well, to move Flea into a position to take her place once the baby arrived. Of course, Flea had a full commitment to the Musketeers but to have a travel companion who was also a fully trained bodyguard would be perfect. Constance hadn’t confessed her plan to anyone yet. Maybe after the fundraiser she could mention it to Anne.

A chime sounded after the second rotation to signal the beginning of the tea. Constance couldn’t help but be grateful. Her headache had migrated across from one eye to both, thumping and squeezing her temples. They joined back up with Aramis and Anne and found their seats. Aramis stationed himself a few steps behind the table, leant up against the cushioned wall.

The event room was on the smaller side, but immaculately turned out. 10 tables, each housing between 3 and 5 people dotted the room, each with a crisp linen tablecloth and an array of flowers. Towers of finger foods were placed in the centre by a waiter as another circled with pots of tea. Constance smiled but covered her china cup when it was her turn as the group began to eat.

Flea leaned forward and snapped up a sandwich. “At least I get to eat, reckon he’s jealous?”

“Oh undoubtedly.” Anne raised her teacup and shot a look towards the man standing guard. When he winked back, Constance could have slapped him. No body else seemed to notice, even Flea who was happily reaching for an English scone. How the paparazzi hadn’t put two and two together about Anne, Fabien and the hot bodyguard together was beyond her.

“Constance. Are you not hungry?”

Constance looked back to Anne, who as looking at her questioningly, and then down to her empty plate.

“Headache,” She admitted before taking a sip of water. It didn’t help much. “I’ve not been getting much sleep. I think the baby is nocturnal.”

Anne nodded in sympathy. “Oh I remember. Fabian used to get his foot hooked round my rib whenever I lay down. Between that and the heartburn I don’t think I slept after 32 weeks.”

“You two are really selling pregnancy to me.” Flea muttered from behind hand, causing Constance to splutter with laughter. She regretted it almost immediately as her head spun and throbbed in protest. Anne frowned and placed a sympathetic hand on top of hers.

“I mean this in the kindest possible way, but you don’t look well… I could ask Aramis to find the concierge.”

“No, no it’s fine. I just –“

“Nonsense, Aramis!” Anne raised gaze and Aramis was by their side in a moment.

“Madame, is everything okay?”

“Constance has a headache, could you find the concierge and see if they have anything which could help?”

“Headache?” Aramis squatted down to peer at into Constance’s eyes, gaze narrowed in concentration, “I could call d’Artagnan. They’re on a paperwork day. Treville wouldn’t mind if he –“

“Aramis I’m fine, don’t fuss.”

“Medication, herbal tea, whatever they have.” Anne’s voice left no room for argument. Her hand brushed against his arm on the way to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, an accidental gesture to any outside eyes. “Please.”

“As you wish,” He straightened up and brushed down his suit jacket. There was the faintest outline of his side arm on his hip as the fabric was stretched. “Flea watch your six. I’ll be back.”

Flea sat up a little straighter, eyes suddenly focused on the room, “Can do.” Her hand laid gently over her purse and it’s concealed weapon.

As Aramis walked away, Constance smiled gratefully to Anne, “Thank you.”

“Of course. Is this a new thing? Perhaps you should call your doctor after the benefit?”

“Isn’t that a bit - ” Constance searched for the right word, “Dramatic?”

Anne shrugged slightly, her bare shoulders pale in the expensive lighting, “You know your own body.”

Had she snapped? Constance hadn’t meant to. She rubbed a finger against her temples. Was her headache getting worse?

“I’m sorry… Ignore the grumpy pregnant lady.”

Maybe she should have Aramis call d’Artagnan. Neither Treville nor Athos would complain if she explained –

“Does that look like…” Flea trailed off as Constance glanced up. A man had entered the conference room, sticking out dramatically in dark loose jeans and a long overcoat. His light hair was loose and unkept, long enough to graze his chin. His face was pale and gaunt and his eyes roamed wildly over the room.

Constance frowned. “Do you think he’s lost?” Foreboding prickled up her skin, the knowledge of something not being quite right sitting heavy against her chest.

“Maybe…” Flea’s hand slid slowly into her hand bag, the muscles of her arm tensing and she gripped the weapon. “Get ready… If I say hit the floor…”

“Excuse me sir?“ Aramis had noticed too. He wore his most easy smile - one which Constance saw straight through. “Are you lost? Can I help –“

The gunshot came out of nowhere. One second the intruder’s hand was empty and the next Aramis was on the floor, groaning and clutching his stomach. The man spun and stalked into the event's room. He fired another shot, the bullet hitting high on the plush wall.

“DOWN!”

Constance barely felt Flea grab onto her upper arm and force her to the ground, Anne landing heavily beside her.

And just like that the room exploded into panic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kind reviews <3 I hope you enjoy this second chapter just as much!
> 
> Anyways, how's your lockdown life going? Let me know and keep safe!
> 
> Enjoy! Lat ^^

“Aramis!” Anne tried to scramble to her feet, desperate to get to the fallen Musketeer. Her head had barely brushed the top of their hiding spot before she was yanked non-so-gently back to the floor.

“No!” Anne couldn’t remember the last time someone had been so forceful with her, but Flea’s tone left no room for argument. “He’s wearing a bullet proof vest. You’re not. Stay down! Constance are you with us? Constance?”

She wasn’t. Her head spun. No, not spun. It thundered. It rolled and throbbed and took her vision with it. Even sounds - the shouts and cries and hurried clacking heels, were suddenly muffled as if under water.

“Hey, Constance,” Two cool hands found her face and directed her gaze gently upwards. A few blinks later and Flea’s face swam into focus. Her hair had escaped it’s sculped prison, tumbling around and framing a worried gaze. “Madame, there’s something wrong!”

“No I’m, I’m okay. The tumble made my head…What happened, what –“

“Where is she? Where is Harriet?” The booming shout was accompanied with a loud shot gun blast shot straight into the ceiling. “You have her!”

“Where is who?” Anne shuffled next to Constance and tucked an arm around her waist. With Constance transferred to Anne, Flea shuffled forward and poked her head up over the table.

“Doesn’t matter,” Flea muttered, watching as the man stalked the event room. “He’s unhinged…”

Flea noticed the spot where Aramis had fallen was empty. A small blessing. Aramis was alive, either unscathed or wounded. He had to be because, if he was dead, no one would have stopped to move the body. Flea might have sounded confident about his vest but at point blank range there was every chance of a bullet going through. Her eyes scanned the room as Clemount had taught her. _‘Head on a swivel’._ Suddenly that phrase had taken on a whole new meaning.

The gunman began to circle the conference room, ranting and about this mysterious ‘Harriet’. At the first table he came to, he paused, before smashing the butt of his riffle into table. The wood splintered and crockery went flying. With no one revealed, the gunman moved over to the next one.

Shit, shit, shit. Three tables between them and the gunmen. Their hiding place had about a minute before discovery. Flea ducked back down and turned to the women. Anne looked worriedly back at her, but it was Constance who was concerning. Her face was flushed a vibrant crimson and her eyes _shone._ Fever? Flea didn’t get it. The woman had been fine that morning?

The crash of the next table being flipped pulled Flea back to reality. Prioritise. That’s what Clemount would say. They needed to get out of here first and worry about Constance.

“We need to be ready to move.” Flea glanced back over her shoulder. “When I say ‘go’ two are going to make a break for the door. I’m going to lay down fire if we need. Get into the lobby and get outside. Do you understand?”

Anne nodded resolutely but Constance’s was shaky. This was going to make escape more difficult…

“Madame? I’m sorry but can you –“

“I can help her,” Anne nodded and tightened her grip on Constance’s waist. “Just say when.”

“Right.” Flea turned, weapon gripped tightly in her hand. With the second table dealt with, the gunman began his stalk towards table number three.

Timing is everything… Another one of Clemount’s favourite sayings. Well? Time to see how good her timing was.

“Ready, Madame. Three. Two. One…”

Flea popped up from behind the table, Glock raised in one fluid motion.

“MOVE!”

* * *

For a second it felt like the bullet had gone through. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , that hurt. He couldn’t breathe. Did it hurt as much as getting actually shot? Right now it felt like it.

_You need to move…_

In fairness it had been a while since he’d been shot. Maybe his memory had been softened with time. d’Artagnan hadn’t even been around….

_They’re going to notice the lack of blood soon._

And that had just been in the arm, had barely even stopped him from running from those traffickers –

_Move, you idiot. Move!_

Right. Moving. Cover. Focus.

Aramis’ eyes cracked open. He was alone in the foyer, surrounded by broken vases and strewn flowers. Shouts and cries carried from the street outside, along with the string light of the Parisian spring. With an effort he shoved himself to his knees and shuffled across reception desk. His breathing finally began to even out as his shoulder leant against the cool dark wood. How on Earth had a charity high tea turned into taking a bullet in the chest?

“-Where is Harriet-“

What? Who the hell was Harriet? The man was a lunatic. Dangerous with a gun, yes, but Aramis had dealt with worse. He tugged his phone out of his pocket, ready to SOS the Garrison when the front doors slammed shut.

“Chain the front door and get to the back. No body gets out until we get what we want. Bitches.”

Shit. Aramis threw himself behind the desk as footsteps thudded his way.

“Yes, Dad.”

Clinks followed by a heavy click and Aramis wanted to curse. He typed out a text silently as he listened.

_Shots fired. 3+ gunmen. Primary + Secondary with F. Barricaded inside._

Has Flea got the girls outside before the doors had been chained? Aramis doubted it. Their table had been right at the back of the hall. Surely there was no way -

“Start checking the rooms. I want anyone from the charity brought here. Someone knows where she’s been stashed and I want answers.”

Both sets of footsteps faded, leaving Aramis alone and cursing his luck. Three, at least. Family? It sounded like it. Families tended to be more emotional, less organised. That could be an advantage, though could also lead to them panicking. He needed to get back to the group.

“MOVE!”

That sounded like –

Gunshots boomed through the large room, accompanied by screams and scurrying steps. Anne burst through the doorway, Constance limp next to her. The women didn’t even notice Aramis as they turned towards the front doors, clearly not noticing the heavy chains looping around the door handles.

“Anne!”

Aramis drew up to full height, weapon aimed over the woman, in the direction one of the voices had disappeared to.

The pair wheeled around as Flea backed into the foyer, weapon still raised. She fired off two more shots.

“Madame, what’s the hold up? Get –“

“Door’s locked – Flea - ”

Aramis spun, desperately looking for options. The bedrooms weren’t safe. Linin cupboards not secure. There was nowhere! Nowhere except –

A thought struck. It was a tactic Porthos had shared from his time in the police. Suspects holding up in elevators. Old elevators. The building was old enough and full of original fixtures. It was a gamble, if the hotel owners had fully refurbished the lift then they’d be sitting ducks.

But what other choice was there?

“On me!”

He turned and jammed the button of the up arrow of the lift. The immediate ding was music to his ears, and he piled in, followed by three women.

Shouts and angry calls of ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ followed them, along with gunfire.

_Close damn you! Close!_

Aramis stabbed 1st floor button, gun raised and pointed at the rapidly closing gap.

The footsteps were getting closer.

_Common you stupid piece of -_

The doors closed with a ding and the lift car began to shudder and creak upwards.

“They’ll just meet us on the next floor!” Anne whirled, looking at Aramis as if he had lost his mind. He, however, was studying the button panel.

“Common…. Common you stupid piece of…”

There! Whoever was looking down on them must have been smiling, because there, underneath the three floor buttons, was the tiny red square marked ES. Emergency stop.

Aramis flicked up a tiny box and yanked hard on the lever. The lift breaks screeched and shuddered to a stop in the middle of two floors.

For the first time since being shot Aramis felt like he could pause to breath. His body sagged against the expensive wooden panelling.

“Jesus Christ… That was fun…”

“Fun? This is fun to you?” The resounding slap of Anne’s hand took Aramis by surprise. He heard the crack, followed a moment later by a stinging heat.

“Anne I, “ How could you explain his reaction like to someone who’d never lived a life like his? Someone who’d never run on adrenaline, felt the rush of a fire fight and experienced the come down after. Anne could never understand, how could Aramis expect her too?

“I mean I just…”

But Anne had turned away. She hooked her arm around Constance and lowered her down to the carpeted floor. “There’s something wrong, help me.”

Aramis looked at his fried for the first time since the tea. She had gone from a headache to swaying. Her cheeks were pink and eyes uncomfortably bright. Her head lent back against the cabin wall, hand protectively over her pregnant stomach.

“Flea, call the Garrison. Tell them our location. We need backup and extraction ASAP. Anne, when did this happen?” Aramis said and he knelt next to Constance.

A horde of gunfire from above exploded around the room, causing the two musketeers to freeze. Flea glanced at Aramis, hand flexing towards her weapon, but he shook his head. After over a decade of being fired at, Aramis was skilled at deciding if gunfire was meant for him. That wasn’t pointed their way, for now at least.

“Her headache got worse after the gunfire,” Anne joined him, a gentle hand touching Constance’s face. “After Flea pulled us down. She said she was okay. But I – she’s burning up. She said it was just a headache!”

A curse resounded round the small box as Flea ducked down next to them.

“No signal. Phone or coms. The old shaft must be blocking it or something.”

_Damn it…._ Aramis forced a hand roughly through his hair. Just their luck. It was bad, bad but not unsalvageable. The team had his text, knew their location. His brothers would find them, they just had to sit tight and deal with one crisis at a time. After a steadying breathe Aramis looked back to Constance. His hand gently nudged Anne’s out the way, feeling the heated clammy skin for himself.

“Jesus... Did she say anything before we got here? Anything this morning? Anne? Flea?”

“No nothing. She’s been fine. She-“

Anne placed a hand on Flea’s arm to silence her.

“Those aren’t the shoes my stylist picked for her.”

Aramis frowned, eyes sliding down Constance’s body, the expensive green silk dress, to the slip-on gold boots.

“I don’t understand?”

“This morning Theo gave her black suede heels with an ankle strap. Constance said they were too tight, but they were fine at last week’s fitting.” Anne shuffled down to her friend’s feet. “ Flea, could you help..?”

Flea copied Anne and carefully eased off the golden shoes. Constance whined quietly and tried to tuck her feet up under her.

“I’m sorry… I’m almost done just –“ Flea tried to be as gentle as possible as she eased the boots off, leaving Constance’s pale feet bare.

Aramis didn’t need to test to see that they were swollen. Very swollen. Why hadn’t Constance said anything?

“Constance?” Aramis stroked her clammy cheek, pulling the attention of the woman. It took a moment, but her eyes did open. He attempted an easy smile, his thumb stroking across her damp cheek bone. “There’s those beautiful eyes. Thought you’d gone to sleep on us…”

Constance frowned, her nose wrinkling up as considered Aramis’ question. “How could I with all this noise?”

“You can’t fool us girl. We know d’Artagnan. Gun fire must be like whale song or rainfall for you.”

Constance smiled, cheek rested comfortably against her friend’s hand.

“You’re so rude…” The smile suddenly faltered as her eyes squeezed shut. A hiss escaped her lips as her brow furrowed. “My… My head…”

Anne plastered a fake, smile on her face.

“When was the last time you saw the doctor, Constance?” Her hand reached out and squeezed her shin in what she hoped was reassurance. “Or your midwife. Did they test you for preeclampsia?”

“Pree - ? No… I saw her last week. Everything was fine, she said everything was – Oh god!” As if an electrical current had been shot through her, Constance went rigid. Her knees jerked up to her bump as she cradled her head. “It hurts!”

Anne made shushing noises, rubbing up and down her back and shoulders until, finally, Constance’s body relaxed. When her face was revealed again, her cheeks were damp with tears.

“I know it hurts… Take deep breaths and keep your eyes closed. It’s okay… Flea could you sit with Constance, please?” Anne levelled a look at Aramis and tugged firmly at his suit jacket. He switched spaces with Flea, who immediately began to murmur with Constance. Anne ushered him back, not that there was far to go in the lift cabin. There was a worried edge to Anne’s face as turned, features strained and tight.

“Anne?”

The question brought her attention back to him. One arm crossed itself over her chest, thin fingers twisting themselves around the expensive fabric of her sleeve.

“She’s sick. Aramis –“ Anne’s breath caught in her throat as she gripped tighter to her clothing. Maybe, if she held on tight enough, Anne thought she could stop herself from falling apart. For one sickening moment Aramis thought she was going to break down, but after a heavy breath Anne forced her hands back to her sides. The woman was nothing if not in control herself.

“If this is preeclampsia she needs to be in a hospital. She needs doctors and a urine test and her blood pressure being monitored.”

“How sure are you?”

“I’m not a doctor, Aramis!” Anne cringed at her own raised voice. A slender finger rubbed along her brow bone. When she continued it was in a hissed whisper, not wanting to stress the woman out more than the situation already was. “All I know is from being pregnant with Fabian. She has all the signs - a splitting headache, fever, sudden swollen ankles and feet. If I’m right, then next could be vomiting or confusion. Aramis, if it’s bad enough she could start seizing and if that happens then how do we make sure she keeps breathing?”

Shit…

Waiting for extraction didn’t seem to be an option anymore.

* * *

“I can’t believe we’re just _sitting_ here!”

Athos ignored the crash of what he _assumed_ was d’Artagnan kicking something and kept his eyes on the console. The blurry images from the hotel’s CCTV jerked across the screen. Three gunman, six hostages, four missing principles and _not enough_ cameras to know where they went. The last comunicay had been from Aramis 46 minutes ago and they’d been on the scene for almost 15.

In order to keep the ‘integrity’ of the historical building, the owners had only installed three cameras; one in the office which was _no_ help, one of the event hall which at least gave them a view of the hostages, and the last which gave an uninterrupted view of the upstairs corridor which led to the six guest rooms. The next time person who chose décor over security was going to end up with a broken nose curtesy of Athos.

“We need to move now!”

“You need to take a breath.” Thank _God_ Porthos had his head on straight. “Or Athos is going to bench you and you know it.”

“But Constance is –“

“In there. Mate, I know. But if you can’t keep you’re head on straight then you’re going to get yourself or one of us dead. Go outside and take a breath. I’ll shout you if anything changes.”

There was a pause, a shuffle and then the slam of the van’s sliding door.

“Thank you.” Athos muttered, eyes never leaving he the gunman as he stalked in front of the hostages.

Porthos shuffled forward on the metal bench seat so he could see the live footage over his leader’s shoulder. He tapped the keyboard and for a moment the screen switched to a view of the empty office, then to the deserted bedroom hallway, before back to the ballroom. Porthos tapped the button again and the cycle began again.

“He’s a hair trigger right now.”

And wasn’t that the truth… Athos tapped Aramis’ speed dial again in a vague hope it would ring. When the recording of Aramis’ voice began to roll, Athos hung up without bothering to listen.

“We all have our pressure points. Constance is his. Once we’re in he’ll be fine, it’s the waiting that’s killing him. His imagination is running away with him…”

“And how close are we?”

With a shrug Athos pushed back. “Cleamount is trying to establish contact between us and the hostiles, they haven’t responded. We know Madame and Constance were alive at the time of Aramis’ messages, and we have no reason to believe that has changed –“ _Although there are plenty of blind spots for bodies_ … Athos pressed the heals of his hands into his eye sockets. That was not a helpful thought. “- None of their phones are ringing, which makes me think that they’re together, wherever they are. Treville will okay an extraction if the hostiles won't negotiate but –“

“Wait! What was that?”

Athos’ eye flashed open and followed Porthos’ pointing finger. The screen displayed the upstairs corridor and for a second Athos couldn’t see what had caught his teammate’s attention. The image was still with three of the six doors broken and splintered off their hinges and an upturned maid’s cart abandoned in the middle of the floor.

“What do you mea-“

Then he saw it.

“Jesus Christ –“


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been a while! It turns out that lockdown has been busier than I expected! 
> 
> I hope you are all safe in this crazy time!
> 
> Enjoy!

“We can’t wait for extraction.” It was what they were all thinking. None of them knew how long Constance had before her need for a hospital became critical and Aramis couldn’t test those boundaries. His medical knowledge, while vast in combat medicine, was non existent in terms of prenatal care. Hell, if Constance was _having_ the baby Aramis would have felt far more equipped than he did right now. 

“Flea. Assess the situation.” The instruction had a hard edge to it.

Flea nodded, eyes flitting from her friend on the floor to the woman next to her.

“We can’t risk moving?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

Oh right. Another Musketeer rule - be decisive. “Statement.”

Despite the situation, Aramis flashed her a quick smile. “Good. Continue.”

“Three enemy targets at least. All armed. No contact with the outside. Two friendlies, two charges, one incapacitated. Right now, Madame is safest if she remains here. Our position is easily defended but someone needs to get somewhere with a phone signal. Establish contact with outside.”

“Good, good…” Aramis nodded in agreement of Flea’s novice assessment. Perhaps, if she lived, they wouldn’t make her sit the close protection written exam… _If_ she lived. “So how do you suggest we do that?”

Flea paused, considering. She glanced around the cabin for inspiration, before settling over on the white ceiling tiles.

“Do you think you can get me up there?”

Flea wasn’t a tall person, but with Aramis’ interlocked fingers to stand on she could get high enough to nudge a panel and shove it to the side. A mix of dust and plaster fell and dusted her face in mist. Flea wrinkled her nose in an effort to not sneeze.

“What’s up there?” Aramis asked, lifting her a little higher so Flea’s head could poke through the hole.

“The tiles are just plaster covered polystyrene, but the metal struts look bulky enough to stand on. There’s two runner cables too. They must go all the way up.” Flea paused, squinting up in the darkness. “We’re about 6 meters from a ledge - I think it’s the next floor? There’s a slice of light which must be the doors. It’s not so far, only a bit higher than the last wall on the endurance course.”

Carefully, Aramis lowered his hands until Flea’s head reappeared in the cabin and she could jump down onto the carpeted floor. She brushed the worst of the plaster off and looked back to Aramis.

“I could climb it.”

Aramis raised his eyebrow. “Don’t think so. Those cables aren’t like climbing a rope. There’ll be no give to them, it’s a completely different beast.“

“If I can climb a pole, I can climb those cables.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, Flea regretted them. She glanced at Madame, sure she wouldn’t appreciate having a former sex worker as a bodyguard. If she had heard though, Madame made no motion. She stayed where she was, sat next to Constance with her head on her shoulder. Flea carried on. “The most experienced should stay with the charges. If someone gets this lift going then you need to be here. Let me climb up and make the call.”

For a moment Aramis held her gaze, as if weighing his options. Weighing her. Flea raised her chin ever so slightly in defiance.

“Fine.” Aramis shrugged off his suit jacket and began to unbutton his white dress shirt.

“What are you – “

“If you’re going up there then you’re wearing the bulletproof vest.” Aramis tugged it over his head and passed the heavy vest to Flea, “No arguments.”

It made sense, Flea had to admit it, so accepted the equipment with no argument. Aramis was quick to shrug his shirt back on, but not quick enough to hide the furious purple bruise on his ribs. Flea heard Anne’s sharp intake of breath but pretended she hadn’t.

She needed to ask Porthos about that history if she got out of this.

_When_ she got out of this.

Aramis-sized vest swamped her, but after a few firm tugs of the Velcro straps it felt decently tight. Despite the extra weight, Flea felt comforted by the familiarity of it against her back and chest. Her fingers found the indent on the vest, feeling the dented materiel which had saved Aramis’ life. Once Flea had kicked her heels off, she nodded to her superior, looking a great deal more self-assured than she felt.

“Ready.” 

“Good luck, Felicity.” Anne nodded from the floor. Constance offered her a weak smile. Aramis tucked his extra bullet clip into the mesh the vest before cupping his hands as a stepping stool.

“Be careful. If you can’t get there, then come back. We can come up with another plan.”

Except there wasn’t another plan apart from waiting and hoping that Constance had that amount of time. This was the only real choice they had.

Carefully Flea allowed Aramis to punt her up until her head poked through the space as before. This time she reached through the gap and steadied herself on either side on the metal support struts. Aramis pushed her up until, after an awkward hop, Flea pulled herself onto the outer roof. With only the light from the cabin below, Flea stood. She placed her feet carefully on the metal, wobbling across the uneven surface until she reached the cables. Flea grasped the cable which ran closer to the slit of light above and gave it a test pull. Aramis was right, it was nothing like the ropes she had to climb with the other recruits.

Well it wasn’t like she had another choice…

Flea hiked her dress up (thankful she’d taken Ninon’s advice to wear bicycle shorts underneath) and hooked her feet around the cold metal. Her thighs pressed together, skin biting against the cables. The burn was familiar. When Charon had had her start on the pole in a local club (a brief interlude before the first brothel was opened) bruises from the pole at been a common occurrence. Truth be told she hadn’t often needed to climb the thing, a fact she had left out the conversation with Aramis, but she’d held herself on it more times than she could count. How difficult could it be?

She took her weight on her thighs and reached up, grabbing onto the wire above high above her head. The muscles in her arms tightened and Flea pulled her body up, forcing herself up the lift shaft until her thighs locked back onto the wire. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead as she repeated the process again, and again.

The climb seemed to go on forever, the crack of light inching its way closer as her arms screamed in progress. The muscles under her shoulder blades felt like they were tearing from each other as she worked her way up, her short breaths bouncing round the confined space.

9 of the awkward shuffles left Flea panting, the bullet proof vest seemingly tripling in weight on her shoulders. Carefully she reached up and tested the space. She was close, close but not quite. One more stretch, pull, shuffle, and her head was level with the lip of the ledge.

The climb had been hard, but Flea had planned how to do that. Flea hadn’t considered how the next part would go. She guessed the gap was less than a meter and a half, but with aching muscles it suddenly felt much wider.

Don’t look down. Don’t think about it and _don’t look down –_

Flea threw herself into an awkward lunge, pushing herself from the cable towards the brickwork. Her elbows hit the ledge and Flea scrambled to anchor herself. Skin scraped across the brickwork as gravity pulled her down. For one terrifying moment Flea felt herself slip. Her bare feet kicked desperately against the brick chute, attempting to propel her upwards.

_Don’t look down, for the love of God, don’t –_

Flea’s fingers jammed themselves into the slice of light and yanked as violently as she could. The slice became wider. She lurched forward, jamming her shoulder into the gap and shoving it the rest of the way. Light flooded into the chute and, without stopping to clear the room, Flea scrambled through the gap. The door slapped shut the moment her feet were through. For a moment her training left her as she gasped on the ground. Her back throbbed and hands shook.

How loud had she been? Shit, _shit…_ Flea knew she hadn’t considered that in her struggle to get out. They could be thundering towards her just now. Guns at the ready to –

A bleeping filled the room. Fuck. Flea forced herself to her knees and dug her gun out from under the vest. The weapon was half out before Flea realised the sound as coming from _inside_ her ear.

Oh. Right.

She stood unsteadily, ignoring the ache of her back and sharp burn of her bare knees, and tapped the button on the earpiece behind her ear.

“All for one. Who’s on the coms frequency?”

* * *

Athos stared at the screen in disbelief as their newest apprentice appeared from what seemed like thin air. Well, not thin air, but definitely from a lift chute without the _lift._

“Flea! Where the hell did you come from?”

_“Is that Athos? You guys are here?”_

Athos twisted a headphone to face out the way so Porthos could lean forward and listen in.

“It’s me. Three units and Treville, along with a dozen uniformed officers. We’re in the camera feed. Look up.” Athos paused for a second and watched the Flea onscreen glance around the room before spotting the camera high on the wall. “You and Aramis have been dark. What happened?”

Flea dug under her vest (which was far too long for her frame – probably Aramis’) and pulled out her weapon. She began to creep up the corridor as she filled the men in.

_“Exits were blocked when the ambush started. Aramis got us all into the lift and pulled the emergency cord. The thing is suspended halfway between the ground and first floor. Seemed the safest place to camp out.”_

Smart move. Athos opened his mouth to enquire further, when Porthos leant forward and swiped the mic. He tugged it across so it stretched between the two men.

“Are you tellin’ us you climbed up the bloody lift shaft?”

Screen Flea faltered and Athos was sure he could see guilt on her face.

_“There wasn’t another option. The chute was blocking our comms. We have a situation and waiting for extraction is no longer an option.”_

Flea ducked into a bedroom and out of sight for a second and. Athos tugged the mic away from Porthos with a single-minded focus.

“Anyone shot, Flea?”

_“Not shot.”_ Came the bodiless voice from the empty hallway. _“But we have a big problem.”_

* * *

The little cabin was eerily quiet after Flea’s shimmying and breathing disappeared. There hadn’t been any crashing back on top of them, so Aramis had to assume she’d made it. He’d checked his coms periodically but they remained firmly jammed.

“No luck?” Anne asked from the floor. Constance sat in an unrestful dose beside her, head tucked on Anne’s shoulder.

“No. It’s probably the bricks or metal blocking us. Happens in old buildings more often than you think…” With a sigh Aramis settled himself down in front of Constance and moved her feet gently onto his knees. At the questioning look Anne gave him he just shrugged. “It’s what I’d do with twisted or swollen ankles in the field. Might help.”

“Good idea.” Anne looked down at her friend. She brushed a few strands of sweat-slick hair away from her forehead. Constance’s brow furrowed but didn’t seem to wake. “We’re running out of time, Aramis.”

“The others are out there. They’ll get to us before those guns get in.”

“That’s not what I – “

“- Meant… I know.” Aramis sighed. “Maybe I’m just better at focusing on situations I’m used to. Sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I can’t see what it would accomplish.” That was the problem with Anne. Her life had beaten any weakness out of her, and a reason Aramis would never understand, she saw feelings as weakness. There would have been a time in her life where Anne wouldn’t have admitted to being worried. That was growth, growth which Aramis liked to think was in part down to him, but it didn’t seem the time to press further. “Tell me a story? Take my mind out of here?”

“Like a fairy tale?” Aramis smiled as Anne tossed him an exasperated look. “Knights and princesses and giants and –“

“You’re mocking me. Forget I said anything.”

“Hey…” From his spot on the floor, Aramis couldn’t reach Anne without disrupting Constance. All he could do was nudge her gently with his foot. “I’m sorry. What you wanting to hear?”

“Tell me a story from your army days. Take my mind off this mess. Tell me about a time you saved someone?”

* * *

Athos muted the mic and looked to his friend. Porthos’ expression matched Athos’ internal dialogue. The man had never been any good at keeping his face in check.

“Go update Treville. Our timescale’s just changed.”

“What about d’Artag-“

Fuck. Their youngest would go storming in the moment he got wind of this. And rightly so. The situation needed to be handled carefully but Athos wasn’t exactly how that needed to happen.

“Tell him to get back here. I’ll do it.”

Porthos nodded and twisted in the little space to open the door.

_“Athos, you still there?”_

Athos turned his attention back to the screen as the door slid open and shut. He unmuted the mic.

“Here Flea. What’s happening?”

_“There’s footsteps from the stairwell. Have you got eyes on the hostiles?”_

“Stand-by.” Athos flicked quickly through his three shots. Empty corridor. Empty office. Hostages and – “I only have eyes on two. One could be coming your way.”

Athos watched Flea disappear back into a bedroom.

_“Tell me when he’s in the camera’s range.”_

Unease pricked at Athos’ spine.

“Flea, be careful. If this goes south, we can’t get to you.”

_“Understood.”_

“You got a silencer?”

_“Nope.”_

Shit.

Athos heard the door open behind him again.

“What’s going on? Porthos won’t tell me –“

Athos silenced d’Artagnan with a raised finger, eyes never leaving the screen. He could hear Flea’s breathing, quick and shallow as she waited. He muted his mic. If the other hostiles heard the gunshot this could go down hill fast.

“Go get ready to breach. Take Unit 7 and Porthos. I’ll run point from here. Coms to channel 2 – got Flea on 1. Be quick but wait for my signal.”

A figure stalked onto the screen, although Athos couldn’t make out much. Tall, in a dark coat and weapon raised. It wasn’t a professional stance, more of b-list movie actor. Amateur.

“Flea. Hostile approaching!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee! chapter 4! Thank you to everyone who has been reading and leaving comments - you have no idea how much I love hearing from you all <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy this next chapter! 
> 
> Lat ^^

“And the little girl kept her arm?” Anne’s fingers stroked up and down her friend’s hand, following the roadmap tendons as she listened to Aramis’ story. She loved his stories. There was no storyteller quite like Aramis. He told his story with his whole self, voice and body and eyes until had had his audience enthralled. Even in a situation as dark as this, Aramis had her in the palm of his hand.

Aramis nodded. “Hell of a scar but that’s all. I got to check in with her before I left Afgan. She’d been moved to a safe house in Kabul and was finishing her schooling. Told me she was going to go to Harvard when she was big enough…”

The idea of a little girl, born in the middle of a war zone, making it to one of the top tier university was a warm one. Whether it was true or not, Anne decided it was a future she wanted to believe in. “That’s quite the dream. I wonder –“

As Constance stirred, Anne forgot what she was planning to say. The groan from the mother-to-be was low and throaty. Anne’s attention snapped to her younger friend.

“Constance?” She slipped her hand onto Constance’s forehead. Still too warm, still sticky with sweat. Anne’s thumb stroked across her friend’s temples. “It’s okay… What hurts?”

Constance’s eyes were open, but only to half-mast. Her head twisted to the side, lips opening and closing with words which Anne couldn’t catch.

“Constance?”

Constance spoke again, but whatever she was saying wasn’t French. Anne’s eyes flicked desperately up to Aramis, who was already leaning down close to the young woman’s face.

“Aramis, what’s happening?”

“She’s confused…” Aramis Constance’s cheek, harder than Anne would have ever dared, in an attempt to rouse her.

“Constance, Constance look at me!”

But she didn’t. Her eyes snapped open and roamed the little cabin, wide like a dear in the headlights. She continued to mumble but as hard as Anne tried she couldn’t catch any of it.

Well, apart from…

“Is, is she saying ‘d’Artagnan’?”

Aramis nodded, eyes never leaving Constance. “It’s Russian, don’t speak much but I think – Constance, Constance, Sweetheart, d’Artagnan’s not here. It’s Aramis and Anne.”

If she heard Constance didn’t make it known. Her eyes crewed shut again and she turned away from the harsh light of the ceiling bulbs.

“She’s getting worse.” The inability to control the situation wasn’t something Anne was accustomed to. Money and connections were something she’d had all her life, formally through birth and later through marriage. Every door was open to her. With her resources she should have been able to line up any amount of specialists for Constance.

This helplessness was a new emotion. Not one Anne liked.

“We need a hospital.”

“Flea’s on it.” Aramis stood and tried his coms for the hundredth time. Still nothing.

“It won’t be much longer, I –“

Gunfire exploded all around them. Two sets of eyes darted to the missing roof tile where their friend had disappeared.

_Come on Flea…_

* * *

_“Flea. Hostile approaching.”_

Flea’s heart in her thudded in her throat as footsteps made their way along the landing.

One set of footsteps. Slow. Uneven. If Flea had to guess she thought that he was rechecking the upstairs rooms.

_“Wait for it…”_

Breathe. Hold. Wait… The weapon stayed clutched. Flea was desperate to slam out of her hiding place but she had to trust Athos.

“ _Wait… NOW!”_

Flea sprung into the doorway, just as the man entered the frame. He didn’t have a chance to turn before Flea had her gun pressed against his temple.

“I don’t want to shoot you.” Flea could barely hear her own words over the thud of her heart. She picked her way around to face the man. He was younger than his accomplice who had stormed fundraiser. Younger, but there was a similarity. Same blond hair, same thin face. Although not as weathered. His eyes widened in shock, mouth opening to shout.

Slowly she lowered her aim to his chest. “Don’t make me. Not a word. Drop your weapon.”

For a second Flea thought the man was going to do something stupid like ignore her instruction, but then the handgun dropped to the expensive carpet with the muffled thud. She kicked it away with her barefoot and sent it skidding under a side table. 

“You stupid – “

“I said not a word.” Flea shuffled around until she was on the other side of the man. She pressed forward firmly and forced the man into the hotel room.

“Where is she?”

“Only people with guns get to ask questions.” Flea kept the barrel trained at the man’s chest with one hand while her other dug into to back pocket of her vest.

No cuffs. _Damn it._ She needed a new plan.

“She had no right to leave! You all had no right to take her!”

“We haven’t taken anyone.” Flea glanced around the room, forgetting her own talking rule as she looked for inspiration. She tugged the phone cord out of the wall and jerked it toward the desk chair. “Sit down.”

But it was as if he hadn’t heard her. This time, when Flea pressed, he didn’t move.

“You interfering whores had no right to mess with family affairs.”

The penny dropped for Flea. Her gaze snapped back to the man, her eyes widening in understanding.

“You’re looking for someone in one of the shelters.” That’s why the madmen had stormed the fundraiser. A girlfriend or wife or sister had gone to One Voice for help and this was the family’s way of getting her back. Flea’s lips twisted in disgust. “You piece of shit. You –“

A bang, followed by a crescendo of angered shouts, cut across distracted Flea for a moment. It was a small mistake, a split second of distraction, but it was all her opponent needed.

* * *

“Breach!”

The iron key smashed through the door and chains like they were paper, leaving the way clear for the Musketeers. Porthos lead the way, followed closely behind d’Artagnan and the rest of Unit 7. Steel capped boots hammered on the marble floor as the agents descended, riffles raised as they swept the area.

“ARMED POLICE!”

_“Unit 7 sweep the building! Locate our people.”_ Athos instructed through their comms, “ _Porthos and d’Artagnan secure the hostiles. We need to clear the scene for paramedics ASAP –“_

“Who needs the para –“

Gunfire from the function room erupted, sending the agents running for cover. They split apart and flanked the doorway to the function room, weapons clutched at their side.

“GET OUT!”

Porthos raised his hand and signalled d’Artagnan to wait. He looked in the direction of the voice. The caller was certainly angry but there was an edge to his words which Porthos didn’t like. Stress. Stressed targets led to rash decisions and, in Porthos’ experience, rash decisions led to dead bodies.

Not this time.

“Can’t do that mate!” He unbuckled his riffle and set it against the wall. “You’ve got innocent people in there. I’m here to help –“

“I don’t want your help!”

“I think you do!” Porthos caught his partner’s eye raised his hand in the shape of a gun. D’Artagnan frowned back as he mimed shooting him. Next, he touched his ear, then his eye.

“I think you need me!” Porthos repeated his actions carefully until d’Artagnan nodded in understanding. “This place is surrounded. I want to help get you what you need so we all leave safely – can we do that together?”

Silence.

Porthos slowly edged towards the doorway and stuck his hands into the open air.

“Not armed, see? Just me, coming in. Don’t shoot.”

With one more meaningful look at his partner, Porthos stepped into view.

“I’m here to listen.”

* * *

The rugby tackle was sloppy but was more than enough to slam Flea off balance. By some miracle she kept hold of her gun crashed against the wall before crumpling to the carpet.

“It’s you bitches that are the problem – ”

Flea raised her weapon but before she could aim the man stooped and grabbed her wrist. He wrenched her arm up until the barrel faced the ceiling, before slamming her hand into the plaster.

“You MEDDLE!” Bang! Her wrist smashed against the wall again. “You think it’s your place to insert yourself into private issues. Mum was happy! We were happy until she met one of your volunteers and filled her head with –“

But Flea was done listening. She jerked her knees to her chest and thrust her feet into her opponent’s chest. For a moment it seemed as though the man would rather break her wrist than release her but finally, he let go and tumbled backward.

Flea ignored the throb in her wrist as she scrambled back along the wall, watching warily as the man pushed himself up to his feet.

“You bitch!”

The next moment seemed to happen all too quickly. Flea didn’t know where the knife had come from but the silver shimmer in his hand was unmistakeable. Vaguely she heard Cleamont’s chastisement in her head.

_“You see a weapon, you always assume there’s a backup. Complacency will get a teammate killed.”_

Flea raised her weapon.

“Drop the knife!”

But he didn’t. In fact he stepped forward.

She should have checked! Why hadn’t she patted him down? Why hadn’t she –

“I said DROP IT!”

When he raised the knife, Flea didn’t hesitate. The bang reverberated around the room and the man froze. He looked with a look of surprise as a crimson flower spread across his chest. The knife fell from his fingers. He swayed on his feet for a moment before crumpling to the carpet.

Flea didn’t even feel herself moving. One moment she was against the wall and the next she was crouched next to the young man, hands pressed into against the hole in his chest.

“ARMED POLICE!”

Flea’s hands were slick with red. No matter how hard she pressed into the man’s wound the blood kept flowing. He was still breathing, shallow and raspy as he stared up at Flea.

“Last door on the right!” Flea called, forgetting to identify herself as she readjusted her hands. They kept _slipping!_

The boots thundered around her, she didn’t bother to look round when they stopped.

“One hostile down, two unknown. We need to get the lift back to the ground floor. We need –“

A hand fell on her shoulder.

“Flea.” Cleamount’s voice was unmistakable.

“We need a medic team up here!” Flea pressed harder, flexing her fingers against the stained fabric and skin. “Call it in!”

“Flea.” There was a rustle as Cleamount knelt next to her. He reached over and carefully took hold of her wrists. Flea resisted for a moment as Cleamount pulled before she allowed her hands to be drawn back. “Flea he’s dead.”

“No. No he was breathing.” Flea shook her head. “He was looking at me, he was – “

But Cleamount was right. The man under on the floor had stilled. His eyes had dulled. He wasn’t there anymore.

Flea had done that.

“Oh…”

“Are you -

But Flea didn’t let her team lead finish. She tugged her hands back and stood. She wiped her hands on her dress, ignoring their shake as she turned towards the door.

“Have we recovered the lift yet? We need to get moving.”

* * *

The room which Porthos stepped into was chaotic. Broken crockery, flowers and food littered the floor, along with smashed tables and torn table clothes. A small group of women, Porthos supposed the guests who hadn’t manage to escape before the doors had been chained, were huddled in one corner. He counted eleven faces. One man, the younger, stood next to the group, riffle pointed vaguely into the center. The other man stood in front, muzzle trained straight at Porthos.

“Spin.” The older man demanded and Porthos obeyed. He pulled his shirt and vest up as he did so to prove he had no hidden weapon. Once he had completed a full rotation Porthos raised his hands again, holding the man’s gaze.

“I’m not armed. I’m here to help. I’m Porthos – What can I call you?”

For a moment Porthos wondered if the man was going to refuse, but then.

“John.”

“John.” Porthos repeated. It sounded like a fake name, but it didn’t matter. “John, all I want here is to get all of us out of this room. So tell me what you want, yea? Let me help.”

“I want my wife back!” John glanced back at the women in the corner who seemed to shrink under his gaze. “They have her! They took her!”

The pieces were slowly falling into place for Porthos. A battered woman. A controlling husband. He was no psychologist, but he’d had enough training about domestic violence to note the pattern. It was when a victim broke away that the abuser was at their most dangerous. They would attempt to claw back control in anyway possible. This was John’s way. To get his wife back, no matter the cost.

The whole situation was a powder keg.

“John those people are just donors.” Porthos took a step forward. “They ain’t charity workers. They don’t have your wife.”

“They’re liars!” John swung his weapon wildly and Porthos to freeze. While he was confident in his vest to stop a bullet, if he took one to the head, he’d be dead before he hit the ground. “They know where she is! They put ideas in her head and now she’s gone and –“

He snapped his fingers at the younger man.

“Get one. If they don’t want to play nice? Well, we’ll get the truth out of the hard way.”

The younger man blinked, suddenly unsure.

“Dad?”

A growl, low in his throat, escaped Porthos. This wasn’t going the way he had hoped. His plan had been based on offering men a way out. Perhaps that would have worked with the younger man but his father seemed too far gone. For him it seemed there were only two options for leaving this room. With that he wanted, or in a body bag.

“Don’t do this, John.” Porthos warned. “Right now no one is hurt. We can still fix this. But if you hurt one of those women –“

“Quiet!” John glared from the Musketeer, back to his son. “Now boy!”

The boy looked from his father to the cowering women. “I’m not –“

“Useless!” The word was hurled at the younger man, an insult which seemed well used. John stepped back towards the women, eyes removed from Porthos in the distraction. “I’ll do it myself!”

Porthos saw the moment. He’d wanted to talk the man down, but that option was gone. A man this unhinged in a room full of civilians would end in a blood bath. There was only one option.

“John stop! An eye for an eye will never be the answer!”

And that, d’Artagnan realised from his hiding spot against the wall, was his cue. He swung himself into view, body filling the doorway with his weapon raised. Without looking Porthos dropped to the ground, leaving his teammate an uninterrupted view of the target.

D’Artagnan’s shot was immediate, the bullet connecting with his target. John dropped his riffle with a cry and doubled over, clutching his injured leg. The moment the weapon hit the floor Porthos was moving again and took the injured man down in a low tackle.

“Drop it!” d’Artagnan swung his attention to the younger man, who obeyed without hesitation. He strode forward, pressing the button to connect his comms to Athos.

“Two hostiles down. One unknown.”

_“Third is down.”_ Athos’ assessment was a welcome revelation to his teammates. _“Is the way clear for medics?”_

“Yea.” D’Artagnan shoved the younger man’s shoulder until he sunk to his knees. He snapped the cuffs around his wrist before tugging him back up. “Who’re they for?”

_“I’m sending someone to replace you.”_ Something behind Athos’ words made d’Artagnan freeze. “ _Meet me at the front door.”_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! We're nearing the end of this story - only one chapter to go after this one!
> 
> Enjoy! ^^

The little room felt suffocating. They would rather have waited in the hospital’s waiting room, right there to speak to the doctor when there was news, but there had been enough security concerns for one day. With Anne in attendance a private room was safer. She and Athos sat in the only chairs, Aramis on the ground against a table leg and Porthos propping up the wall.

They hadn’t seen d’Artagnan yet, or Constance. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but all the charge nurse would say was Madame de Lupiac was still in surgery.

Surgery…

Athos hadn’t been prepared to see Constance wheeled out on the paramedic gurney - oxygen mask over her face, IV stuck in her arm. D’Artagnan had stuck to her side the whole way, face set in a grim mask which his friends could see right through. Jaw tight, eyes narrowed... It was the look of a D’Artagnan who was holding on by his fingertips.

Watching the couple be whisked away by blue lights left a rock in Athos’ stomach. Other Musketeers had milled around, Team leads shouting instructions as the last of the hostages were processed out by paramedics. Athos had sucked in a breath, preparing to force himself into his soldier’s mindset, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“We have this under control.”

Athos turned to see Treville, van keys in hand.

“Gather your team and go.”

Athos blinked in surprise, before accepting the keys. “You’re sure?”

Treville nodded. “I imagine Madame will want to go, officially we can you the close protection detail. Take Flea too, she’ll probably deny it but Cleamount says she’s having trouble with her hand.”

So Athos had done as asked. Treville had been right about Flea – both about her hand and the denial. A deep purple bruise covered her forefinger and her thumb was swollen from joint to nail. According to the woman it didn’t hurt, not that anyone believed her. The intake nurse hadn’t either, giving the injury only a cursory glance before steering her into an examination room.

That had been an eternity ago. An eternity, and yet also a blink. That was what hospitals seemed to do. There were places where time seemed to stretch differently. Midnight century duty back in the army. A station before the first train of the morning.

A hospital waiting room.

“Coffee.”

Athos looked up to Porthos. The larger man pushed himself off the wall and glanced to his friends around the room.

“My round. Think we could all use it, yea?”

There was a touch between Aramis and Anne, a brush of fingers which Athos doubted he was supposed to see. Maybe it was best he went too…

“I’ll give you a hand. Madame?”

Anne nodded, forcing a smile at the team leader.

“Please. How kind. Just black is fine.”

Aramis opened his mouth but Athos waved a hand. “I know. Coffee, milk and more sugar than any human should be able to handle.”

“You know me so well.”

Athos shook his head, slipping out the door behind Porthos. “The man takes his coffee like a child.”

“Not sure you’re meant to give caffeine to kids, Athos.”

“Well I’d say the same about Aramis.”

Porthos shook his head as they turned into another hospital corridor. He opened his mouth, ready with a retort about their friend and his caffeine intolerance, but the sight a blond woman walking towards them caught his attention.

In a pair of grey hospital scrubs, Flea looked substantially better than when they’d been separated hours ago. When they had arrived she had looked like an extra from a zombie film, hair dishevelled, makeup sweat stained and silk dress crusted and caked with dry blood. Flea certainly looked more tired, but less like a horror movie b-lister.

“Hey,” Porthos paused as Flea noticed the pair. She blinked, black mascara smudged into messy circles around her eyes. “You’ve been released?”

_Stupid bloody question, Porthos._

“Uh, yea.” Flea held up her right hand. It was encased in a soft white bandage which wrapped around her wrist and palm, leaving her fingers tips and top third of her thumb free. There was still a dark bruise on the skin, although Porthos was thankful to see the swelling had gone down. “They x-rayed it. There’s a hairline fracture and deep bruising. No need for a full cast but they’ve wrapped it up to immobilise it for a couple of days.”

“That’s good to hear, Flea,” Athos nodded.

“Is there any word about Constance?”

Athos shook his head. “Nothing yet. We have been checking in but as yet there’s been no word. We are getting coffee. Do you want to join?”

“No, no thank you, I –“ The flash was quick, but Porthos spotted it. Was there a sheen to her gaze? A glisten? “I need to get back to the garrison. Cleamont will want a report from me. Please call me when you have an update.”

And with that she scooted around the pair and (there was no other word for it) fled towards the public exit.

“What the –“ Porthos looked from Athos to the spot were Flea had disappeared. “Did I just imagine that or is she…?”

“Not imagining it.” Athos shook his head.

“Can I?” Porthos flicked his head towards the exit friend nodded.

“Go see what’s going on. I’ll get the coffee. Keep your phone on.”

Porthos nodded. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder in thanks and turned on his heels.

Flea was certainly quick on her feet when she wanted to be. She’d passed through the waiting room, automatic doors and had seemingly disappeared when she’d the outside air by the time Porthos made it outside. What on earth?

Porthos spun, vaguely surprised that it was already twilight. The space was large; a concreate field with a variety of cars parked in rows and a spattering of streetlights flickering into life. The exit to the main road was a good hundred meters off at far end of the carpark. There was no way Flea had gotten that far before Porthos had even made it out of the hospital. Even at a full run she wouldn’t have made it.

In that moment Flea appeared, bobbing and weaving between the lines of cars. Porthos cut between a Honda and Volvo to make a be-line for her.

“Flea!”

He _knew_ that she’d heard him, but Flea didn’t faulter. Porthos quickened his step.

“Hey Flea – Wait!”

He stepped out from between the next row of cars and was met with a loud honk from behind. Porthos stepped back smartly, raising a hand in apology as a black Sudan rolled passed. The driver, a white haired man in his 50s, shook his head.

“You need to look where you’re going.”

At last Flea had stopped and turned back, likely only to see if Porthos had been flattened into the tarmac.

“Wouldn’t need to if you weren’t runnin’ from me.”

“Do you often run after women who clearly don’t talk to you?”

Under the glow of the street lamps Flea’s eyes glistened on the edge of tears. Despite that she raised her chin, as if daring Porthos to mention it.

“Don’t make a habit of it, but if I’m worried about them…”

Flea’s nose wrinkled. “You’re wasting your time worrying about me.”

Porthos knew better than to get sucked into that argument. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, sweeping his gaze across the carpark. The tarmac was still damp in places, left over from the day’s rain. “So, are you going to tell me why you ran out of there like the place was on fire?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does it –“ Porthos felt his voice rise and cut himself off. Shouting would do no good now. But how could she not understand? Seven months in the Musketeers and she still didn’t get it.

“Flea we are a team,” Porthos worked hard at keeping his measured. “Why do you think are here at the hospital? We’re a family. When one of us is not okay we take care of our own and right now that is you.”

“But I’m –“

“Don’t say you’re fine.” Porthos held her gaze, making sure she heard every word. “Because it’s bull. What would happen if Treville called and sent Unit 7 into the field now? Are you in a headspace to watch your team’s backs because if you’re not honest someone could die.”

For a few beats Flea didn’t answer. Her mouth opened, likely to object to Porthos’ assessment of the situation, but after a moment’s hesitation it closed again. When she finally did answer, the words were small. A confession.

“Someone already did.”

Porthos blinked. That was news to him. “What are you talking about?”

He reached out and touched Flea’s arm. When she didn’t resist he steered her out of the carpark (disgruntling one driver was enough for the day) and back to the pavement. When they arrived Flea flopped down onto the kerb, flipflop covered feet next to a puddle. Porthos joined her.

They sat for a few moments in silence, inspecting the puddle.

“I –,” When Flea finally began to speak it was in that same small voice. “I didn’t check for a second weapon.”

Porthos fought the urge to ask questions or steer the conversation. Instead he let Flea take the time she needed.

“I should have. I got his gun but in the moment I didn’t think and then suddenly I was on the ground and he had the knife and –“ A tear dropped onto the concreate, creating a perfect circular dot of dark grey on the speckled surface. Had the rainstorm only been that morning? This day was incurably long. “- If I had checked then he wouldn’t have – I wouldn’t have had to –“ But the rest of her words were swallowed up by tears.

And there it was. The truth. Or, at least Flea’s truth. Porthos wrapped an arm around her shoulders and, when Flea didn’t protest, tugged her closer into his chest.

It was easy to forget sometimes. Apprentices were good, hell they had to be for Treville to even consider them for the Musketeers, but they came from a different world. Most recruits joined the Musketeers pre-hardened to the more difficult parts of the job. They came from the Army or Police or Air force. They had years of experience under their belts and had faced kill or be killed situations countless times before ending up in the Musketeers. Flea wasn’t like that. D’Artagnan hadn’t been either. Their life experience hadn’t prepared them for such moments and it was easy to forget just how hard that the first time hit.

To blame yourself was natural, even if Flea’s only alternative would have had was to end up in her own body bag.

There would be time to say all that to her. To lay out the facts and rationally explain why her choice, while horrific, had been her only real option. And Porthos was sure that Flea would come to forgive herself, and perhaps even the man who had pushed her into making that decision.

But crying on the kerb of a hospital carpark wasn’t the time. Not for rational thought and conversation. Instead Porthos just offered Flea a squeeze and rested his chin on top of hers.

There would be time for all that later. 

* * *

“Which of you is Mr Alexander?”

Four sets of eyes swivelled to the open door. A nurse, a young woman with a kind expression and pink scrubs looked expectantly at the group. Athos set his coffee down and stood.

“That’s me.”

The nurse nodded and stood back. “If you could follow me please?”

With a quick look back to his team, Athos nodded and did as he was told.

The walk was quiet. The nurse didn’t offer information and Athos was reluctant to ask. Asking would be the easy part, it was the answers he didn’t think he could handle.

They turned a corner and Athos caught sight of the ward name as he was let through a key card protected door.

NICU.

The nurse ushered through a side door. The room was small but warm and softly lit, with a few pieces of furniture scattered around the room and an incubator in the middle. D’Artagnan sat in a plastic chair which had been pulled up next to the machine, eyes fixed on its contents.

The nurse held out anti-bacterial gel and Athos allowed his hands to be sprayed.

“Do you have someone to introduce me to?”

D’Artagnan, for the first time, tore his gaze away from the incubator and looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, but he did attempt a smile. It was half successful.

“Yea,” There was a gruff edge to d’Artagnan’s voice. He coughed in an attempt clear his throat and tried again. “Yea I do.”

He stood up and pushed the chair back to make from for his Team Leader. “This is Charlotte Anne de Lupiac.”

A daughter.

Athos stepped forward and looked into the incubator. The child was tiny. Wrapped in a blanket and the world’s smallest hat, Athos could only see the pink of a cheek, a bare dusting of eyelashes and the slight curve on a nose. Tubs ran in and out of the baby bundle, connected to a range of machines which beeped and dripped every so often.

He reached out and squeezed d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s so small…” It sounded like the lump in d’Artagnan’s throat was back, as if he was speaking around a golf ball. “Doctor said she’s 2.1kg – just over 2 bags of sugar.”

Athos didn’t think he’d ever actually met a new-born. There had never had much cause to be around babies. There had been Fabian, but he had been sitting up and crawling by the time Athos had encountered him. Never had he seen something so small and fragile.

“And Constance?”

“The, uh –“ d’Artagnan scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his combat gear. “The c-section went well. Apparently they have her on magnesium something because they’re worried about seizures. She’s in post-op just now but once they move her to the ICU they’ve said they’ll take me up.”

“Good.”

D’Artagnan squatted down and reached his hand through the opening of the incubator. His finger brushed against the little pink hat, seeming impossibly large next to Charlotte’s face.

“I can’t – I mean –“ d’Artagnan’s gaze didn’t leave his daughter. “She’s so small. I can’t leave her alone. I thought, when I go, that you could –“

“I’ll sit with her.”

d’Artagnan nodded, grateful that he didn’t have to ask.

“Why don’t I go update the others?” Athos offered, “Before you go up to Constance?”

Again the younger man nodded, eyes still transfixed on the precious cargo inside the incubator. “That, that would be good. Thanks.”


End file.
